


A Night to Remember

by KoreArabin



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:28:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27090490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin
Summary: An evening of girly gossip leads to Irene suggesting an extra-special birthday surprise for Seb...With a HUGE "thank you" to the lovely exbex for being so gorgeous and supportive and generous!
Kudos: 4





	A Night to Remember

  


Irene just _loves_ these sessions with Jim. She has her girlfriends, and her _girlfriends_ and, although there are of course a lot of femme lesbians and Irene's preference will always be for the femme, not all of her friends have _quite_ the eye for fashionable detail that Jim possesses. 

So, tea and biscuits, followed by wine and nibbles, and a good giggle over the high-end glossies, the celebrity gossip mags and Jim's rather racy gay magazines always leaves both of them in tremendously good spirits, and full of mischief. It was after one of these giggle-fuelled get togethers that Jim attempted his first "lady snog", an utter disappointment for both of them, but something they look back on with immense fondness and much hilarity.

Jim's looking through a photo montage of the recent London BAFTAs. "My God, now doesn't _he_ look a dish in Chanel? But what on _earth_ is she thinking of? And - darling - look at her, in that Project D frock - Pellica, no less. She's enough to turn a boy to the straight side." 

"Really? Even you, darling?" Irene fains a little moue.

"Oh, Irene, no, no - silly. You know only too well that if I _did_ girls, you'd be right up there at the top of my "to do" list."

"Good." Irene snuggles up to him, running her fingers through his newly-quiffed hair. "I _do_ like this, by the way. I loved your old 'do, but this makes you look really wide, really _gangsta_."

"My love, you know as well as I do that we must keep up appearances. Jim Moriarty was beginning to look far too much like Jim-from-IT with that short back and sides, and if I am to continue being uber-consulting-criminal-megalomaniac-insane-Jim-Moriarty, needs must. Seb's had some really bloody gorgeous celeb stylist to the stars salon cut, and he looks utterly lush. Suits his sharp suited sniper persona right down to the ground."

Irene cocks an eyebrow at him. "Jim Moriarty, _pretend_ psycho? Seb Moran, fashionable boy about town? I don't think so, darling."

Jim pouts. "I'm not a psychopath. I just enjoy killing people."

Irene smiles. "Oh, Jimmikins, don't sulk. It really doesn't suit you, darling. And, anyway, I thought you wanted to talk about Seb? What's he been up to?"

Jim's face immediately brightens. "Oh, yes. Irene, it's Seb's birthday next week. I want to give him something really special, but I'm running out of ideas. I've given him rifles for the last three years, and he _loves_ them, as you know, but I so want to surprise him, give him something different, this year. Any ideas?" 

A slow grin spreads across Irene's face. "Leave it to me, darling. I have _exactly_ the thing."

-O-

"Irene, darling, are you sure about this?" Jim looks doubtfully at the paraphenalia she's laid out on his bed. "Seb's a pretty butch chap. I'm not sure about the whole rent boy thing, at all."

"Relax, my love. Seb was a client of one of my "adult" associates long before you snapped him up, as you know. He will _adore_ you like this, darling. He will know that no-one else will ever have you like this; no-one else would prompt you to do this. What could possibly be a more unique, utterly wanton, totally _bloody sexy_ gift, Jim? Let's get you ready."

-O-

Seb lets himself into the flat, relishing the opportiunity at last to relax. Jim is a bloody hard task master, the little shit and, despite the orgasmically lovely rifles Jim's given him as birthday gifts over the last couple of years, Jim's given no indication at all that he even remembers it's his birthday. So, happy birthday to me, he thinks, setting the bottle of 20 year old malt down on the kitchen table and wandering through to the bedroom to grab his pyjamas.

There, kneeling beside the bed, is Jim. Jim, clad only in the tightest of gleaming red latex boyshorts (the ones with the vent at the back, ohhhhhh God), his arms laced together behind him in a red pvc arm binder, and a thick red patent leather collar around his neck. His lips and nipples are rouged red, and he holds a single deep crimson rose between his teeth. 

Spread out on the crimson bed cover is what Seb can only think of as an industrial sized tub of lube, restraints ranging from simple ballgags to leather straps, handcuffs and a whole pile of ball chain, and a cornucopia of sex toys: nipple clamps through crops and tawses via frighteningly large buttplugs to scalpels and implements that Seb would hesitate to use on livestock.

A note is pinned to Jim's left nipple, only a small bloodstain marking the corner of it. "Happy birthday, Tiger. I am yours. Use me." 

Seb beams. "Oh darling. Oh, _darling_. This is going to be a night to remember."

  


**Author's Note:**

> Jim's comments on the BAFTAs are based on what the Sherlock actors were actually wearing at the awards.


End file.
